


Hard to find

by tigs



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-01-08
Updated: 2007-01-08
Packaged: 2018-02-12 07:06:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2100162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tigs/pseuds/tigs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>No, when Rodney looked back at him, he just said, his voice steady, "Do you want me to leave?"</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hard to find

**Author's Note:**

> This is something of an experiment for me. Many thanks to [](http://amy13.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://amy13.livejournal.com/)**amy13** for inspiration and talking me through this.

It ended like this:

With John standing just inside the door of his house, his hand wrapped around the knob, like he was the visitor there, like *he* was the one who was out of place. His other hand was in the front pocket of his sweatshirt, clenched tightly around his key ring; he could feel each tooth of the car key digging into his palm, of the house key as it was pressed between his fingers.

He coughed, swallowed. Stared. Cleared his throat, even, but he wasn't the first one to speak.

That, of course, was Rodney.

Rodney, who was sitting on John's couch like he'd been there all afternoon (and for all John knew, he might have been). Rodney, who was staring right back at him, his eyes wide, looking, well, almost unsure, John would have said, except for the fact that Rodney was *never* uncertain (even when he was wrong).

Except that this time he apparently was, because he sounded it, too, his voice—not wavering exactly, but it maybe fluttered just a bit around the edges as he said, "Sheppard, I—"

John watched him look away for a few moments, run his hand over his head, rubbing his hair the wrong direction. He expected there to be words, protests. Rodney telling him he was being an idiot of epic proportions because while yes, they were no longer in the Pegasus Galaxy, and yes, everything had changed, it didn't mean that *everything* had to change.

He expected Rodney to argue, again, because that was what Rodney did best.

Rodney didn't argue, though. No, when Rodney looked back at him, he just said, his voice steady, "Do you want me to leave?"

John just looked at him for a long moment, swallowed again. Said, "Rodney, I—"

 

 

It began something like this:

With Rodney barging into John's office like he owned the place, like they were back in Atlantis and not underneath Cheyenne Mountain. It wasn't that John hadn't been expecting him, because he had been, but he hadn't really expected his door just to *fly open*, banging back against one of the concrete walls.

He'd at least expected a *knock*.

But Rodney didn't knock, not unless he was coming into your room, and no matter how much time John had spent in his office over the last month, it definitely wasn't home.

So, one minute John was staring off into space, holding one of his model jets in his hands, wiping a fingertip over the wing, and the next Rodney was there, standing in the doorway, staring at him, one eyebrow slowly creeping upwards.

"Oh, please," he said. "Two and a half years in another galaxy and, what, they're just *letting* you to sit in your office and stare off into space?"

He was smiling, though—grinning widely—and John felt the corner's of his mouth curving up, too.

He said, "Hey, I'll have you know that I'm writing up my mission report. PX6-921. The planet of the, well, rocks that look a whole lot like emeralds. And better yet, it was just in and out, because there wasn't anyone to lay claim to them."

"And I'm sure you hated every minute of it," Rodney said. "No guns, no danger, no Wraith hiding in the undergrowth." As he was speaking, he was stepping farther into John's office, then moving to close the door behind him. John didn't hear the lock click, but he watched Rodney lean back, watched as the other man met his stare and said, fidgeting slightly, "Hi."

"Hey," John said, like it had been three hours since they'd last seen each other, not four weeks. Like the last time they'd talked—right here in this very mountain—it hadn't been as awkward as Hell, stilted words and glances where they never quite met the other person's eyes.

But this was good, better. This reminded him of how it had been before. Before that mission to the Osagi planet, where they'd missed their check-in by about, oh, 13 hours due to a slight case of being tied up and threatened with knives. When the Osagi had dragged Rodney away during hour seven, laughing maniacally, and John had shouted himself hoarse, calling out, "McKay, McKay! Rodney! Listen, you sons of bitches, if you hurt him, I'll—"

Before he'd opened his door that night to find Rodney standing on the other side, a butterfly bandage on the flat of his cheek, saying, "Sheppard, I—" and the last of John's resistance had crumbled.

Before.

John smiled, because from the way Rodney was looking at him, he thought that maybe the other man was feeling it, too, and that was… good. Definitely good. So he stood up from his desk and said, "Hey, listen. Do you want to go grab something to eat? Off-base?"

And Rodney gave him a look that said, are you crazy?

They went to a steakhouse about ten minutes away from the mountain, and everything continued to be good. Rodney told him about what the members of the science team were up to: Zelenka, teaching his undergraduate physics classes, and Simpson shacking up with one of John's men, and Miko, going back to school for a fourth degree. John told him about some of the missions that he'd been on, others he'd heard about from Vala and Mitchell and Sam.

It wasn't until they were back at John's house, relaxed and pliant with beer, that things took a turn for the worse. Because John said, "You know, this has been nice. I missed this," and when he looked back over at Rodney, he saw that the look in the other man's eyes had changed. Heated. Opened some, when John hadn't even realized it had been closed.

There was hope there, too, and *that* was what made John look away again, made him close his eyes, because his reasons hadn't changed. He still couldn't—

"Rodney," he said.

He heard Rodney shift on the couch beside him, heard the cushions creaking, and Rodney was closer now. "You can still have this," Rodney said. "We're settled in now. I mean, yes, things are different, what with us being in different states, rather than right down the hall, but we could have weekends; I have excuses to come up here, we can *think* of excuses for you to come down to Area 51. I—"

Rodney was right there, and John wanted to lean closer, to raise his hand to Rodney's shoulder and pull him in, to meet him half-way, but he couldn't. He'd made the right choice before, he had to believe that, and this was just—

"Rodney," he said, still not looking up. "I—"

"Sheppard," Rodney said. "John—" Then he sighed, sounding defeated in a way that made John ache. "I'll be here for another day. If you change your mind."

Then he moved, off the couch, across the room. John kept his eyes closed as he heard the sound of the door opening and closing again.

 

 

Or maybe it began earlier, like this:

With John walking into his (now empty) room, wanting to be anywhere but, yet having no where else to go, only to find Rodney sitting on his bed, his elbows balanced on his knees, his hands clasped in front of him.

He didn't look up when John walked in, and that—that was enough to make John stop. To will the door shut behind him. He felt more than heard the lock click and closed his eyes, just for a second, trying not to wonder if it would be the last time.

When he opened them again he said, "Rodney." Then, when Rodney *still* didn't look up, he said it again. "*Rodney.*" He could almost hear the mental 'yes, yes, fine' as Rodney raised his head, but while that would have made him grin just a few days ago, now he just stared.

Rodney's gaze seemed shadowed, more than the dim light in the room could account for, and John. John sighed.

"You're being an idiot," Rodney said, his voice sounding hollow, and John clenched his fists, feeling nails dig into his palm. "You think, what. We go back to Earth and everything has to be different? You think that Atlantis is some sort of… haven?"

Rodney sounded like he believed what he was saying, like he knew John too well. But he was wrong, because John didn't think of Atlantis as a haven; it was just that for him, as of tomorrow morning, Atlantis as he knew it would be over. The connection would be gone, nothing more than a life-long happy memory of the good ol' days, when he actually fit into his world in a way he'd never fit before.

And Rodney, for better or for worse, was part of John's Atlantis—a memory of happy times. End it while things were good, John thought, and it would be something to carry him through the next few months of walking into closed doors, dark rooms, flying planes with his hands rather than his mind. Because John knew himself, knew his track record with long distance relationships, where he ran up phone bills that rivaled his rent. He knew they never lasted and they ended badly—jealousy, or a joke that didn't carry through the phone line, or something *small* that would get blown out of proportion. How he could avoid the rough spots simply by not picking up the phone.

He couldn't do that, not with Rodney. He couldn't lose this to a slow fading of feelings. He wouldn't let it happen. So, he'd made his choice.

"I'm sorry, Rodney," he said, and then Rodney was standing up from the bed, his eyes flashing.

"Yes, well," Rodney said. "So am I."

And John let him go, telling himself (again) that he'd made the right choice. That he'd make the same choice again.

 

 

But it ended something like this:

With Rodney sitting on John's couch, asking, "Do you want me to leave?"

He was staring at John, his eyes shadowed, visibly expecting an answer he didn't want, and John. All John could do was stare back, because he'd been here, he'd made this choice before (two too many times already), should and can't and want and the goodness of the night before, the happy memories that he'd told himself he'd needed all warring in his head, and while he had to believe he'd made the right choice, he wasn't sure he could do it again.

He didn't know if he *wanted* to make it again.

John looked at Rodney, swallowed, said, "Rodney, I—" and he watched as Rodney nodded. He could see Rodney's fingers flexing, could see muscles shifting in preparation of Rodney getting up, leaving, walking out John's door (again)—and somehow John *knew* this would be the end. No more chances, no more choices.

And suddenly that seemed a whole hell of a lot scarier than it had back on Atlantis, than it had yesterday. Maybe because John had known Rodney, had known he wouldn't give up without a fight, and maybe John—

John—

Slowly, John closed the door behind him, brought his other hand forward to bury it in the front pocket of his sweatshirt, too, and as he wrapped his hands together, palms suddenly sweaty, he said, "No. I don't."

It may have been the wrong decision, but as John watched the shadows clear from Rodney's eyes, as he watched Rodney's mouth open and close again—the other man apparently, for once, at a loss for words—it felt better than any choice he'd made in the last two months.

 

 

Really, though, it ended like this:

With Rodney getting up off of the couch. But this time, it wasn't to leave.

End.


End file.
